


Victory

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Living Together, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The problem is that Oikawa gets frequently and aggressively bored, and worse he labors under the delusion that it is Iwaizumi’s sole purpose in life to amuse him." Oikawa is easily bored. Iwaizumi is less easily distracted, but Oikawa is persistent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Massive, massive inspiration credit to this post: http://viriassecrets.tumblr.com/post/100190162087/idk-guys-oikawa-just-seems-like-a-person-whod-be

Oikawa is a pain to live with.

It’s not the fact that he takes up the entire bed when he sleeps, or the fact that his dirty dishes never make it into the sink, or the way he eats leftovers and leaves a single bite behind in the carton, though all these things are true. Those things are counteracted by the warmth of another person under the blankets at the night, and the fact that he keeps up a running conversation while Iwaizumi cleans, and the frequent cooking projects that always turn out at least edible if not always as aesthetically pleasing as Oikawa wants.

The problem is that Oikawa gets frequently and aggressively  _bored_ , and worse he labors under the delusion that it is Iwaizumi’s sole purpose in life to amuse him. This is with no consideration for what Iwaizumi may or may not be doing, or how inconvenient distraction may be, or how loudly Iwaizumi shouts at him. Bored Oikawa means he’s doomed to have the other boy hanging over his shoulder, or pressing in against his hip, or playing with the strands of hair cut close against the back of his neck until he gives up on whatever he’s doing. Today he’s playing a game, engrossing and difficult enough that he resists for longer than usual, ignores Oikawa’s vocal whining entirely and makes it to the next escalation of boredom, when the other starts to wind in against Iwaizumi himself. The chair in front of the computer saves him from the worst of it -- with Iwaizumi hunched in over the keyboard and his elbows pressed to the arms, there’s no space for Oikawa to fit in against his lap or around his shoulders. Iwaizumi is focused on his game when there’s a huff over his shoulder, a whine of surrender, and he makes the mistake of thinking he’s won himself some peace.

Then there’s motion in his periphery, Oikawa dropping to his knees, and the weight of the other’s head presses in against Iwaizumi’s thigh.

“Iwa-chan,” and Oikawa has hit new levels of whimpering this time. The drawn-out vowels of the nickname are nearly as distracting as the rhythmic bump of his head against Iwaizumi’s leg, hard enough to rock the chair the other boy is sitting in. “I’m  _bored_.”

“Leave me alone,” Iwaizumi says without looking away from the screen. “I’m in the middle of a level.”

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” and that is piercing, now, enough that Iwaizumi flinches and throws out a hand to shove Oikawa away. His fingers hit soft hair, slide through the locks until he can make a fist of them; Oikawa starts to purr satisfaction at the contact before the sound cuts off in a protesting shout as Iwaizumi drags his head back from the other’s leg by force.

“Go  _away_ ,” he says again, still holding Oikawa back by his hair. “I’m  _busy_.”

“You’re always busy,” Oikawa insists. He’s got one hand closed at Iwaizumi’s wrist, keeping some of the painful tension off his scalp, but the other is replacing the heat of his forehead at Iwaizumi’s hip, the weight of his palm sliding over fabric. “I’m not even trying to distract you.”

“Bullshit,” Iwaizumi growls. “You are  _always_  trying to distract me.”

“Am not,” Oikawa protests with no evidence to back up his claims. His fingers tighten in order, points of pressure digging in against Iwaizumi’s leg like he’s showing off his dexterity. Iwaizumi carefully keeps his focus on the screen, doesn’t look down for the shadow in Oikawa’s eyes or the part of his lips. He knows they’re there, doesn’t need to see them to be certain. “Why are  _you_  so sure I am trying?” Oikawa’s fingers slide in an inch, the motion seemingly idle but for the location of his touch high along the inside of Iwaizumi’s leg. Iwaizumi’s hand slips, his character misses the shot he was lining up. “Are you becoming distracted?”

“I told you to  _leave_ ,” Iwaizumi grits out past teeth clenched on the gasp his inhales want to take as Oikawa’s fingers drag higher, bump again the inside seam of his jeans. It’s hardly like Oikawa has been unaware of the effect his position and his touch is having on the other boy, but with his hand where it is now there’s no avoiding it. Iwaizumi can feel his efforts at resistance melting under the press of Oikawa’s fingers, his insistence evaporating as Oikawa fits his palm against the taut-stretched fabric at the front of his jeans.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa breathes, sounding shocked and faintly judgmental. “You’re like this already?”

“Fuck this,” Iwaizumi snaps, fumbles with the keyboard until he can at least pause the game before he twists his chair around to face Oikawa. “Don’t talk like you’re in some shitty BL manga.”

Oikawa leans back in as soon as Iwaizumi is facing him, slides himself in closer as he pushes the other’s knees apart to make space for himself. His eyes are shadowed out of all innocence, the suggestion in them undermining all his previous attempts at plausible deniability.

“How would you prefer I talk?” There’s a taunt, there, the hint of amusement under the words, but Iwaizumi doesn’t care. Oikawa is reaching for the fly of his jeans without being urged, fitting the elegant lines of his fingers in against the button and the zipper, and there’s no point in claiming disinterest when they can both see Iwaizumi’s cock straining against the restraint of the fabric.

“How about you  _don’t_?” Iwaizumi suggests, the words dipping low on a growl as Oikawa slides his zipper down and reaches for the top edge of his boxers. Oikawa’s eyebrow goes up, his mouth twists into a smirk, and when he laughs the sound shoots all through Iwaizumi like electricity.

“You’re  _mean_  to me, Iwa-chan,” he observes, the words teasing more than protest. Iwaizumi hisses wordless frustration, reaches out to make a fist in Oikawa’s hair, but before he can move Oikawa is sliding his clothes down, or at least aside, freeing the radiant heat of his cock to the air for a moment. Iwaizumi’s hiss turns into a groan, his hips arch up involuntarily in search of some kind of friction for the ache of desire under his skin, and Oikawa ducks his head to meet him. There’s the slick of his lips, hot and damp as he tips his head in closer, and then Oikawa is sliding Iwaizumi’s cock back over his tongue as the other boy collapses back to the chair, his body going shaky and trembling with the sensation.

It’s not that Iwaizumi  _forgets_  that he’s mad. The frustration is still there, the certainty that he’s being taken advantage of underpinning the overheated glaze of his thoughts. It’s more than he sets it aside for the time being, because Oikawa is very irritating but he is also  _very_  skilled with his mouth, moves with a self-confident grace that would make Iwaizumi jealous if he hadn’t been the practice subject as well as the final recipient for this skill. Instead it sets him on fire, sparks up his spine to run up against the memory of all the  _other_  times, the ones where Oikawa was too fast or too reckless with his teeth or took him in too far, all the awkward stepping stones to this, now, when Oikawa slides down with precisely the slow steadiness Iwaizumi likes, slicks his tongue against the base of the other’s boy’s cock in careful appreciation before he draws back up. His fingers are slick too, catching on the damp left by his tongue as he wraps his hand into a hold at the base of Iwaizumi’s cock, and Iwaizumi can’t help the way he groans, his hand dragging encouragement into the fist he has of Oikawa’s hair.

“More,” he gasps, not because he needs more sensation but because this is part of the game, the hair-pulling and the arch of his hips up against Oikawa’s lips and the thrumming want under his voice. Iwaizumi can see Oikawa’s lashes flutter, self-satisfied pleasure at being so overtly desired, and he throws out his other hand too, tangles it rough into the locks of caramel-gold hair. “ _More_ , Oikawa,  _deeper_.” He’s tilting his hips up, dragging at Oikawa’s hair, and Oikawa isn’t looking at him, his eyelashes are flickering over his gaze and his mouth is slipping open wider, his movements going a little sloppy as he takes a deep breath through his nose.

Iwaizumi can predict almost to the second when the other’s fingers will slide off him, when Oikawa’s hands will steady at his hips to hold him down to the chair, and Oikawa is ducking in deeper just as Iwaizumi starts to pull at his hair to urge him in. Oikawa’s lips part, he tilts his head back, and when he slides in he takes Iwaizumi’s cock all the way back, slicking across the heat of his tongue and smooth over the back of his throat. Iwaizumi tips his head back against the support of the chair, his eyes shutting of their own volition; he can feel Oikawa’s throat working against him, reflexive attempts at air before the other pulls back for a moment, sucks in another breath before taking Iwaizumi back again. There’s the vibration of sound, Iwaizumi can feel it, an instinctive noise or deliberate purr he’s not sure and doesn’t care; he can feel his body drawing taut, perfectly responsive to Oikawa’s actions like the other is playing him like an instrument, can feel the onset of pleasure trembling through his thighs and flexing in his fingers. He doesn’t bother fighting it or reaching for it either one; he just drops back against the chair, lets his shoulders relax and his breathing go deep and gasping. Then Oikawa slides his mouth back, tightens his lips and sucks hard, and Iwaizumi is coming, shuddering all through his body and splashing hot over the slide of Oikawa’s tongue against him. Oikawa purrs, licks against him like he’s relishing the taste, and Iwaizumi jerks, twitches against the other boy’s lips and chokes on “ _Oikawa_ ,” his hands dragging in an attempt to pull him away instead of in, now.

Oikawa is laughing as he pulls back. He makes a show of licking his lips, swallowing slow and lingering, but Iwaizumi doesn’t let Oikawa see him watching. He pulls instead, urging the other to his feet by the hold he has on his hair, and Oikawa leans in as he stands, fits his knees in over the arms of the desk chair as he trusts his weight to the none-too-sturdy support.

“This is dangerous,” Iwaizumi points out as he tugs at the edge of Oikawa’s sweatpants to slide them off his hips, leans back to counterbalance the other boy’s weight.

Oikawa doesn’t even respond to Iwaizumi’s point. He tilts in instead, twining his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck in complete disregard of the way the chair squeaks protest under them at this double weight. His lips brush Iwaizumi’s ear, gust appreciation as the other boy gets his clothes off his hips so he can reach for his cock. He doesn’t need any encouragement; Oikawa is hot as soon as Iwaizumi touches him, the head of his cock slick already to match the damp at the inside of his clothes, and there is no part of Iwaizumi that is surprised. The only person who appreciates Oikawa’s blowjobs more than Imaizumi is Oikawa himself.

“You’re ridiculous,” Iwaizumi says, tightens his hand hard against Oikawa’s cock so the other boy jerks against his lap, so there’s another slick of liquid across his knuckles. Oikawa whines against his shoulder, arches his hips up to thrust against Iwaizumi’s hold, and the chair tips dangerously before Iwaizumi can lean forward to keep them upright. Oikawa doesn’t even react; he’s too busy breathing hard against Iwaizumi’s shirt, whimpering “Iwa-chan,  _Iwa-chan_ ” in tones of desperation against the other’s ear.

“I know,” Iwaizumi hisses, sits up as straight as he can manage. “Stop  _moving_.” He starts stroking properly, fast and quick and rhythmic with the pace of Oikawa’s breathing, and he’s braced enough that even Oikawa arching in against him doesn’t offset their balance. His skin is hot from the satisfaction still lingering in his blood, warmth sticking against Oikawa wherever they touch, and he can hear Oikawa’s breathing stuttering in his throat, his inhales turning frantic with anticipation.

Then Iwaizumi strokes up again, tightening his fingers for extra sensation as he moves, and Oikawa goes utterly silent. The whimper in the throat, the shift of his hips, even the anxious draw of his breathing all go still, like he has ceased to exist for the moment it takes Iwaizumi’s hand to slide back down. Then he’s shuddering, making up for that moment of quiet with movement and sound both, and when he comes it ends up as much across Iwaizumi’s fingers as across Oikawa’s soft t-shirt.

Iwaizumi pulls the last trembling shocks of pleasure up from Oikawa’s body; then he lets go, reaches for the other’s shirt, and is wiping his hand clean at the fabric before Oikawa has a chance to put words to a protest.

“ _Iwa-chan_!” and he’s grabbing at Iwaizumi’s hand, futile attempt to stop what is already done.

“It was sticky already,” Iwaizumi points out. When he shoves Oikawa slides back off his legs, any resistance he might offer undermined by the trailing heat of pleasure in his veins. He ends up sitting on the floor again, pouting up at Iwaizumi with his eyes wide and his mouth soft.

Iwaizumi had intended to go back to his game, pivot himself around and unpause immediately just to spite Oikawa’s insistence. But he can’t resist the shape of Oikawa’s mouth on that pout, not when they’re alone with no audience to think of, and what he ends up doing instead is leaning in, ducking his head to match his lips to Oikawa’s and meet the upturned offer of his mouth. Oikawa tastes smug with victory, pleasure tangible in the heat of his lips and the damp of his tongue against Iwaizumi’s mouth, but with the lull of satisfaction in him Iwaizumi can’t find it in him to mind very much.

It’s not like he’s lost. They’re on the same team, after all.


End file.
